


so be careful (if you're wanting this touch)

by reclusivefutures



Series: throuple's therapy [1]
Category: Tegan and Sara (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, CW: mild self-harm, F/F, Fluff, Getting Back Together, High School (memoir) by Tegan Quin and Sara Quin, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Title from a Carly Rae Jepsen Song, couple's therapy, everyone calls sara cute pet names, gratuitous references to obscure tegan and sara songs, like baby and sweetheart and bitch, tegan is mentioned but she isn't even in this really I'm sorry to tegan, where does the good grow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclusivefutures/pseuds/reclusivefutures
Summary: Sara knows she’s selfish. She’s always wanted too much. Right here, right now, all at once, forever. She wants her space. And she wants to keep being in a band with Tegan, the only person she’s ever trusted with her career, her music, her whole history and personality and being. And she wants Stacy, and she wants their home, and their cats, their routine, their yard, their garden, the life they’re building.And.And she wants Emy. Wants her bad, wants her now, wants her still.She wonders what’s wrong with her, that she wants so much, all the time.
Relationships: Sara Quin/Emily "Emy" Storey | EE Storey, Sara Quin/Stacy Reader, Sara Quin/Stacy Reader/Emily "Emy" Storey
Series: throuple's therapy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858387
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	so be careful (if you're wanting this touch)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donnamoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donnamoss/gifts).



> inspired heavily by stacy and emy's presence in the Where Does the Good Grow insta live comments, and also by sara's acknowledgements in high school ("Stacy, my best listener, and Emy, my first reader, I love you both." <3).
> 
> title from "too much" by the great carly rae jepsen.
> 
> dedicated to donnamoss, my best listener AND my first reader! happy boxing birthday!

Sara sends a text: _just got off the plane, love you xx_. She counts to eight as she breathes in through her nose, then again as she breathes out through her mouth. It wouldn’t be her first panic attack in a YUL bathroom stall, not by a longshot, but she’d still rather go without it. What has she spent so many years in therapy for, anyway, if not to be able to stave off an airport public bathroom panic attack? She feels dirty and claustrophobic, but the containment of the stall is also oddly comforting, and she doesn’t want to go back out yet.

She has to keep telling herself that Stacy told her to do this. It was Stacy’s _idea_. And Stacy loves her—Stacy loves her in a way she never thought anyone could, makes Sara love in ways she didn’t think she could. Stacy would never set her up for failure. She takes another deep breath and thinks about Stacy. She’s buoyed by Stacy’s love, Stacy’s trust, Stacy’s confidence in her and in them. Sara doesn’t deserve any of it. She opens their text thread, considers sending her text after needy text the way she does sometimes, but she refrains. Instead, she reads through their messages from this morning, a soothing ritual that gets her through too-crowded bus rides and backstage nerves and difficult conversations with industry idiots.

A text comes in from Tegan— _mum wants to know why you didn’t tell us you went to montreal??? And so do I wtf sara_ —which she ignores, preferring to scroll through her messages from this morning about the new pillows Sara has been researching and sending Stacy reviews of. Stacy’s neck has been aching and even when she doesn’t complain, Sara watches her stretching, convinces herself she can hear the crackling of her tired bones. She started googling solutions, reading articles—problem-solving. If she were someone else, maybe she’d reach out her hand, maybe she’d massage the stiff tendons of Stacy’s lovely neck. But she isn’t someone else.

Now, Stacy sends back a picture of Holiday, with the caption, _she misses her daddy_ , and Sara smiles, despite herself. _I miss you_ , Sara sends back, immediately. She never can stop herself, with Stacy. There is no holding back, no saving face. She is all in, all the time. She doesn’t have a choice, and she’s more than okay with that.

Sara opens her text thread with Emy, closes it, opens it again, closes it. Systematically closes all her apps, then opens Instagram, feels the satisfaction of the notifications disappearing. She doesn’t read any of them. Opens her email, automatically swiping her thumb across the ads for clothing and concert tickets, feeling the small burst of endorphins that comes with deleting unnecessary weight from even the artificial, digital parts of her life. She opens her NYT app, closes it again when she sees the same exhausting BREAKING NEWS there always is. Opens her texts again, scrolls mechanically past the names and group chats made from combinations of the same names, feeling the smallness and the fullness of her social world.

Tegan, Stacy, Mum, Bruce, Dad. Emy.

It hits her again, how she didn’t even bother texting her to tell her she was coming. It hits her again, how stupid she is, how selfish, how arrogant and ungrateful and small and scared she is.

She takes a few more slow breaths and sends Emy a text: _can I call you in a minute?_

The response is immediate and shocking and exactly what she expected: _Of course! Are you okay?_

She waits until she’s in the relative privacy of a cab to Emy’s address to call. Emy picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” she all but yells, way quicker than she meant to.

“ . . . Sara?” Sara hears an unhappy little huff over the line. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”

“I’m fine, I’m—in Montreal?”

“You bitch, why didn’t you tell me you were coming! Do you guys wanna stay at my place? Like Like misses you.” Sara hates that she knew Emy would go with whatever Sara threw at her, had relied upon this quality when planning (or rather not-planning) this trip.

“No! I mean, yes I do want to stay, probably, but I’m not here for work or anything, I’m—I came alone.”

“Oh,” Emy says. Sara pictures her squinty face, her furrowed brow, imagines running her finger over her forehead to smooth it.

“I came . . . to see you?” Sara admits. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I mean, ask you,” she corrects herself. “I should have asked you.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Emy says, a reflex. Then, “Did you—did Stacy come with you?”

“No, I came alone,” she repeats.

“Oh,” she says, in a different voice, a little worried, and Sara feels overcome with how good Emy is, how pure and kind, and she feels a little sick. “Is . . . everything okay?” Emy asks.

“What? Oh, oh my god, yeah, Stacy and I are fine, we’re good, this is—this isn’t . . . I just wanted to see you.” She bites her lip, then realizes she’s been biting it this whole time when she finally feels the pain. “You said. . . “ she starts, hating how small her voice has become, “You said I could come any time, right?”

“I did,” she confirms, her voice soothingly matter-of-fact. Sara feels the twitch of a smile.

“Okay. I’m, um, I’m on my way to your apartment.”

“Jesus, Sara,” she says, but there’s a laugh in it, she sounds more amused than angry or inconvenienced. Sara had been counting on that, too. “I’m not home, but I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? Give me thirty minutes?”

“You can—you don’t have to—I can sit in a coffee shop or something, you don’t have to rush—”

Emy cuts her off with a scoff. “Don’t be stupid. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

They’d been in Candace’s office when Stacy had dropped the bomb. Looking back, Sara can see why she’d waited until they had a third party witness before bringing it up.

“I think I have an idea about why you’re unhappy,” Stacy had said, which was a terrible thing to hear. Not only an accusation, but a _true_ one.

“I’m not unhappy!” Sara had said, automatic and a little combative. Two pairs of eyes stared patiently back. “I mean, I’m not more unhappy than usual! I’m happy with you, Stacy. I’m happy with our life.”

Stacy looked at her, fond, warm, and just a little condescending. “I know, sweetheart. I am too.”

Sara blushed and tried not to roll her eyes at the same time, a physical manifestation of her love/hate relationship with public pet names. She took a breath, trying to feel and sound unrattled. “Okay. Good. What were you going to say?”

“Sara, I want you to know this isn’t a criticism or anything like that,” Stacy began, which was not a promising start. She was using the voice she used to calm Mickey down when he got riled up by the birds in their yard, slow and soothing. “I love you and I love our life together. I wouldn’t leave you and I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Oh god,” Sara couldn’t stop herself from saying. “But . . . ?”

“It’s not a but,” Stacy assured her, too quickly. “It’s . . . more of an _and_? I love you and I know how much you love me. I don’t ever doubt that,” she said, although the silent _anymore_ hung thick in the room. “ _And_ ,” she continued, “you love Emy.”

There were a million things Sara almost said. _I love you more_ —a lie. _Not like I love you_ —a half-truth. _I don’t love her more than I love you_ —true, but meaningless.

Candace had been working with Sara on honesty and simplicity, so she just said, “Yes.”

They’d talked about Emy in couple’s therapy before. Of course they had. So now, Candace looked . . . surprised, but not shocked. She didn’t say anything, just directed her gaze at each of them in turn.

Under Candace’s clinical and assessing gaze, Sara’s instinct was to make a joke. “You know lesbians and their exes,” she said. “Everyone’s got them.”

Stacy looked calmly back at her, lips shaped into an almost-smile. “Not like this, Sara.”

It was hard not to be annoyed with how perceptive Stacy was. Sara sighed. “Yeah,” she agreed, nodding. “You’re right.”

Stacy, who had already known she was right, kept talking, clearly eager to get out whatever speech she’d rehearsed. “I know how important your relationship with Emy is to you. And she’s important to me, too. And I don’t want to rely on some kind of arbitrary rules about what relationships are supposed to look like, not if it keeps you from being happy.”

“I _am_ happy!” Sara interrupted grumpily.

Stacy talked over her, which wasn’t great couple’s therapy etiquette, but was sometimes necessary, regardless. Besides, Sara, who grew up constantly fighting to be heard over Tegan, considered interruptions an essential part of the art of conversation. “I want to be clear that I don’t want to open up our relationship generally. I just want you to be happy, and I want Emy to be happy, and I think you’d both be happier if you let yourselves be _more_ to each other. I think we all would. Obviously you don’t have to agree, I just think we should explore the idea.”

Sara couldn’t speak, so Candace said, “Sara, you look a little worried. Can you tell us what you’re worried about?”

“I’m not sure,” Sara managed, digging her nails into the soft skin of her inner forearm to try to bring sensation back into her body. “I’m . . . confused.”

“Maybe you can ask Stacy to elaborate,” Candace suggested.

“Okay,” Sara said, and then took a gasping breath, followed by a measured inhalation through her nose, out through her mouth. She knew what she had to say, but it was embarrassing and honest and _hard_ , and she had to steel herself for it. “Okay. Is this because . . . am I too . . . do you need a break.”

Stacy put her hand on Sara’s knee, boldly approaching Sara’s upper limit for public touch. It was grounding, though, Stacy’s thumb stroking her leg slightly while she asked, “What are you talking about?”

“I guess what I mean is . . . I’d understand if you were suggesting that I try to get back together with Emy so you didn’t have to deal with me all the time,” Sara said, and she really tried to make it sound like a joke. “Share the wealth.”

Stacy’s gaze didn’t waver. She tightened her hand on Sara’s leg. “I just said that I love you and I love our life together. If you’re not interested in us pursuing a relationship with Emy, that’s one hundred percent fine with me. I will never mention it again, and I’ll never even think about it again.” Sara had made herself remove her nails from her own arm and find Stacy’s hand on her knee, but hadn’t been able to say anything else. “You’re not too much for me, Sara.”

“Sara?” Candace prompted. “Something else you’re worried about?”

And of course, there was always more to worry about. If Sara voiced everything she was worried about, she’d never stop talking. And the worst worry she had about this—Stacy’s crazy and sweet and well-intentioned but very misguided plan—was going to be difficult to admit. But if she couldn’t say it to Stacy now, then Stacy would never understand. “Thank you,” she starts, because they’re in their therapist’s office, and she thinks she should be thanking Stacy for something, probably. “I guess I understand where you’re coming from. It’s—a nice idea. But it’s pointless. Emy would never want that.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Emy doesn’t . . . Emy doesn’t want me. And that’s totally fine, I’m not missing anything. I have you, that’s everything. Stacy, you’re more than enough for me,” Sara said quickly, hoping the words came out intelligibly. She was shaking a little, but she wasn’t sure why. She looked around for a glass of water that wasn’t there.

Stacy grabbed her fidgeting hands. “Sara. I’m glad you feel that way. Thank you for saying that. But I just. I have to say, I’m not dumb, okay? I know you, and I know Emy. I know you pretty well, yeah?” Grudgingly, Sara managed a nod. “Okay, so listen to me: I obviously haven’t talked to her about it, but I feel very confident that Emy wants this too. And if she doesn’t, I don’t think there’s any risk in asking. She loves you,” Stacy said earnestly. “Just think about it, okay?”

Sara thought about it. And then she couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it.

Emy shows up at her apartment building twenty-seven minutes after Sara hangs up her phone, twenty-one minutes after Sara sits on the doorstep of Emy’s building, and fourteen minutes after Sara has talked herself out of this whole embarrassing scheme.

Sara knows she’s selfish. She’s always wanted too much. Right here, right now, all at once, forever. She wants her space. And she wants to keep being in a band with Tegan, the only person she’s ever trusted with her career, her music, her whole history and personality and being. And she wants Stacy, and she wants their home, and their cats, their routine, their yard, their garden, the life they’re building.

And.

And she wants Emy. Wants her bad, wants her now, wants her _still_.

She wonders what’s wrong with her, that she wants so much, all the time.

She’s been sitting on the cold steps, head down, but glancing anxiously up every few seconds. She stopped looking at her phone when she realized the battery had waned from eighty to thirty-six percent just since she’d disembarked from the plane, tired from her aimless scrolling and frenzied opening and re-opening of apps.

The tears break free the second Emy is close enough to see them, and Sara hates herself for it. Hates whatever needy, bleeding, frozen thing inside her is desperate for attention, desperate to be seen, to be soothed. It’s not performative, or at least not in a false way, but it’s selfish. She knows Emy is weak for her when she’s crying, could never turn her away, could never be anything but soft and sweet with Sara when Sara is falling apart.

She knows she can be manipulative, but she’s not trying to manipulate Emy now. She just wants a hug, and she doesn’t know how to ask for one. Emy’s hugs are the warmest and safest place she knows, and she craves them when she’s on the other side of the country, or the other side of the world.

“Yeah. She’s here, I’ve got her,” she hears Emy saying into the phone brightly. “We’ll call you . . . Okay. Bye, Stace.”

Emy hangs up and sits on the step, in one smooth motion. Sara is fascinated to find that she’s wearing her soccer clothes. Sara had forgotten that the youth team Emy had started coaching had their games on Sunday mornings. She feels stupid and selfish again. Emy has a life here in Montreal, a life that functions smoothly and fully without her.

Emy turns to her and looks, soft and guileless and wise. Sara feels _seen_ , and it makes her stomach hurt. It takes Emy wrapping her arms around her for Sara to realize the stiff way she’s been clasping her hands, nails digging into tattooed wrists, the way she’s been holding her shoulders hunched in and small, and very tense.

She doesn’t exactly melt in Emy’s arms—Sara isn’t much prone to melting—but she can feel the thaw beginning to set in, Calgary in April.

“Your wife,” Emy comments, nodding slightly to her phone, as if Sara didn’t hear the end of the conversation. She feels a prickle of annoyance—she _hates_ being managed, hates the idea of people talking about her without her, hates it more when it’s the two people she loves most.

But god does she love being taken care of, loves the moment when she knows she can relax, she’s got people who know her, she isn’t alone.

“ _I_ called _her_ ,” Emy admits, but she doesn’t seem sorry about it. Emy can always tell when Sara is mad but she never seems scared of her, which Sara, who is scared of everything, has always found unnerving. Sara wants to shake her sometimes, yell, _haven’t you fucking learned by now that I’m not good for you?_

“She knew I was here,” Sara says, a little irritably, sinking into Emy’s soft, strong chest. “I didn’t run off in the middle of the night,” she starts sarcastically, before remembering that Sara running off in the night isn’t exactly a _joke_ to Emy, and probably never will be.

“I mean,” she tries again, “she knows _why_ I’m here.” And then something dawns horribly on her. “Do you know why I’m here?” she whispers, pulling back to look up at Emy.

“Stacy said you wanted to tell me yourself,” she says, which definitely isn’t a no. “Come on, come inside. I’ll make you a latte.”

“Do you guys talk about me behind my back a lot?” Sara asks petulantly, in lieu of saying anything she needs to say.

Emy is unfazed. “You know we talk,” she says calmly. “What else would we talk about? Our lives do revolve around you, after all,” she says, grinning. “No Sara, we talk about normal things. The cats. Clothes, books, TV. But yes, you do come up.”

Sara lets her head fall back against Emy’s shoulder. She can’t believe Emy’s right here.

“Come on,” Emy says, nudging Sara's head from her shoulder before she moves to stand up. “Let’s go inside.” She scrutinizes Sara’s backpack. “Is this all you brought?” Sara nods and follows where Emy leads.

Like Like greets them at the door, circling Sara’s legs and getting grey fur on her black jeans. “Why were you sitting out there alone?” Emy is asking her. “Did you forget your key?”

But Sara isn’t listening. She’s focused on speaking to Like Like in the stream-of-consciousness baby voice she uses unthinkingly with cats and children alike: “Hello, Likey, did you miss your Auntie Sasa? What a beautiful collar you are such a pretty boy I missed you so much who’s the handsomest boy in the world?” She leans down and scoops him into her arms, and jumps out immediately, running away to hide, presumably, behind the washing machine.

Sara pouts while Emy laughs and turns on the espresso machine.

Emy made the best lattes. Sara thought of her every single time she made herself a coffee. It was intimidating, how all these things came so easily to Emy. Emy made the best coffee, the best sandwiches, the best scones, the best art. The best everything. Sara felt pathetic in comparison sometimes, a shadow of a person. Emy is always making things and then just handing them out—not just to Sara but to Sara’s mum and sister, their friends, her fucking youth soccer team, everyone. Sara, deeply and incurably selfish by nature, doesn’t understand Emy.

And Sara emphatically does not deserve her. But Sara is greedy.

She doesn’t mean to but she sighs out an honest to god moan at the first sip of the coffee (sharp espresso, steamed milk, perfect sprinkle of cinnamon). She looks at the mug, the last of what used to be a set she and Emy had bought together, the others lost or broken over the years. She wants to cry, again, like she flipped some kind of terrible emotional regulation switch. Emy sets down a scone—raspberry white chocolate—as she sits across from Sara at the tiny kitchen table.

“You look tired, Sara.”

Sara squints at her, then raises her eyebrows. “Thanks.” 

“How long are you staying in town? You wanna stay here?” Emy asks, as an unnecessary formality.

“I got a hotel room,” Sara says, which doesn’t answer either question.

Emy stares in disbelief. If Emy knew one thing, it was that Sara hated hotels and loved Emy’s house.

“Okay, so I want to stay here, but I got a hotel room in case you didn’t want that.”

“God, well now you’re freaking me out, Sara,” Emy says, trying to sound calm and lightly amused. “Why wouldn’t I want you here?”

Sara takes a bite of the scone—delicious, crumbly but not dry—and deflects. “Did you like the chapters I sent you? For the book?”

“You know I did!” Emy says. She’d sent a lengthy and effusive email the same night Sara had sent the drafts. But she kindly entertains the topic change. “It’s so funny how different your chapters are from Tegan’s. I mean, in a good way. I think it’s going to come together really well.”

“You’ve read Tegan’s?”

“Of course. She sent them to that enormous email list—I know you saw.”

Sara had seen. And she’d downloaded the files, tucked them neatly away into a new folder on her computer, and deleted the email. It’s not that she wasn’t interested in Tegan’s work. It was that she needed to figure out how _she_ was writing this memoir before letting herself read Tegan’s chapters. Sara liked to make herself do things on her own, a habit that was forced into her after too many first days of school spent sobbing when they put her in a classroom without her sister. She’d been learning to rely on herself for decades, and she’d gotten good at it. But she still worried that if she leaned on Tegan too much, she’d never be able to accomplish anything by herself.

Sara, who has always been aggressively her _own_ person, was forever covering up a dark secret: to live her life as Tegan’s shadow would come so naturally, would be so easy. She had to fight against the instinct daily.

“I haven’t gotten around to them,” Sara tells Emy, hoping she sounds characteristically aloof and pretentious rather than cruel, or worse, scared. “I don’t want them to influence my writing yet. I wanna keep it separate now, so it’s more authentic.”

“Well, I think you should read them. They’re sweet, you know, they’re about you a lot. They aren’t as _literary_ as yours,” she says, humoring her but not _lying_ , “but I love them, they’re very Tegan. It’s cute, hers are like: _I love music and I love my sister!_ And then yours are like, _I love girls!_ ”

“I love music and my sister too!” Sara protests weakly. “These are just the first chapters, okay? I’m getting to that.”

“I know, I know,” Emy says. Emy is always humoring her, but it never feels truly patronizing. “Or I guess what they’re actually like, is, _I hate myself and I love girls_.”

Sara shrugs, feeling a small grin find its way to her lips. She can’t argue with the assessment.

“What does Tegan think of your chapters so far?” Emy asks.

“Oh, I haven’t sent them to anyone else.”

“Damn, I should’ve known you wouldn’t let her read them yet. Well, what did Stacy say about them?”

“I just said I haven’t sent them to anyone else,” Sara said. “You’re the only person who’s read them.”

“Oh,” Emy says, and she seems genuinely shocked. “The _only_ person?”

“Stacy’s just, you know, right there, and she’ll worry about me if they’re too—I don’t know, it’ll be a thing. I trust you,” Sara said. “Not that I don’t trust Stacy, I obviously do, but I just—I just want you to read them first? I don’t know, you give the best advice. I know you won’t lie to me.”

“I understand.” Emy smiles. “Although I’m going to have to get better at giving encouraging feedback now that I know I’m the only place you’re getting it from.”

“No, don’t change. You’re perfect.”

“Okay,” Emy agrees. “I won’t.”

When Sara has finished her scone, she still doesn’t feel remotely steady enough to talk about anything real. She takes her little plate and mug to Emy’s kitchen, washes them, joins Emy on the couch, lost in anxious thought.

“Sara. You’re doing your thing.” Emy nudges her.

“What thing?”

“Your weird self-harm behavior.”

Sara looks down, sees the red mark where her thumbnail has been pinching into her thigh through rip in her jeans. “My therapist says it’s just a self-centering mechanism and it’s totally fine,”’ she informs her, but she stops, flexing her hand a few times like a dog shaking off water.

Emy gives her a dubious look. “Why are you so anxious?”

“I was born this way, Emy,” Sara says, faux-serious. “And it didn’t get better.”

“No, you idiot, why are you so anxious _right now_?”

Sara thinks about not answering, but she remembers her mantra for this trip—honesty and simplicity—and hates herself. “The thing I wanna talk to you about is kind of a big deal,” she admits.

“Okay, sure, but it’s just me.”

“Yeah,” she agrees.

Emy’s phone lights up on the table. “Fuck,” she says.

Sara frowns at the screen, displaying a message from someone named Max with a soccer ball and a beer emoji. _Almost there, see you soon!_

“Who the fuck is Max?” Sara says.

“Did no one ever teach you it was rude to read other people’s messages?” Emy asks, without heat. “I forgot. I’m supposed to hang out with my friend Max today, we made plans for after the game and then I left early when you called—I can call them and cancel!”

Sara is halfway to agreeing that _yes_ , Emy should call this stranger and cancel, should lock the door and only pay attention to _her_ and ideally never talk to another person again, before she remembers today’s other goal: show Emy how mature and considerate she is. “Oh, no!” she says, hoping she isn’t laying on the maturity and consideration too thick. “I mean, is it okay if I join you for. . . whatever it is you’re doing?”

“We were just going to go to the new beer garden,” Emy says, fixing Sara with a heightened version of the same confused look she’s been wearing since Sara arrived. “You want to go out in public with a stranger?”

Sara makes herself smile. “You’ll be there.”

Emy isn’t buying it. “You seemed like you had something to talk about?” she prompts.

“Oh yeah, no worries, it can wait.” Sara is pretty sure she’s never said _no worries_ in her life. Then she has a horrible thought. “Unless...it’s not a date? I’m not, like, interrupting something?”

Emy laughs. “No. It’s just a soccer friend, that’s why you haven’t met them. We haven’t known each other long, but they’re _really_ nice.”

“Sounds like a date,” Sara says, accidentally.

“Definitely not,” Emy says, still looking at her with exaggerated incredulity. “Relax, Sara, they’re cool.”

“Do they know who I am?” Sara asks.

“Do they know you’re Sara Quin, lesbian icon, or do they know you’re my ex-wife?”

Sara snorts. “The second one.”

“Yeah. We talk. They’re easy to talk to.” Sara wonders what it would be like to be easy to talk to. “Hey. We don’t have to go anywhere. I’m serious.” And Sara would agree, but this is exactly the kind of sacrifice Sara doesn’t want Emy making for her.

“No, it’ll be fun to go out. I miss Montreal.” _I miss you._ “And I don’t want to mess up your plans. I just want to hang out with you.”

This, finally, brings a smile to Emy’s face, and Sara thrills, vowing to try to keep making her smile, to keep saying the right thing.

“Okay,” Emy says. “They’re almost here, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sara says, “I’m the one who showed up unannounced. I’m down for whatever.”

“You’re . . . ‘down for whatever’?” Emy repeats, suspicious.

Sara nods, trying to look like someone who is down for whatever. “I know I can be a brat sometimes, but I am capable of going with the flow,” she says, feeling just a little annoyed.

Emy reaches out a hand to feel Sara’s forehead, mouthing to herself exaggeratedly, ‘ _Going with the flow?_ ’

Sara ignores the theatrics and pushes down her annoyance. She isn’t surprised, but it hurts a little that Emy is so shocked to see Sara inconvenience herself in the slightest for her. She might not have a reputation for being easy-going, but she’d follow Emy around for much longer than one afternoon, if that’s what it took to prove how relaxed she can be. Plus, she thinks, maybe the extra person will be a good buffer to give her time to refine her speech in her head.

A text comes in from Stacy: _how’s it going? love you._ Sara isn’t sure how it’s going, so she puts off answering. _made it to emy’s, love you too._

“Do I have to speak French?” Sara asks Emy, mock-warily.

“Do you suddenly _know_ how to speak French?” Emy teases.

Sara calls her a bitch and Emy’s doorbell rings.

Max is as cool and easy to talk to as promised. Emy introduces Sara as her “best friend.” The superlative pleases her, but the term itself makes her feel like she’s back in high school, when she could never tell when best friend might be code for girlfriend.

“Max coaches one of the other teams in the league,” Emy says by way of introduction, “They’re our arch enemies. My kids crushed theirs today.” Like Emy, Max is wearing shorts and a jersey. Sara feels overdressed and stupid in her long pants, Docs, and an oversized, tailored jacket layered over a t-shirt. It’s seventy-five degrees, so she takes the jacket off and carries it for the five-block walk to the beer garden, feeling exposed and sweaty.

Sara’s quiet while Emy and Max discuss the kids on their teams, trailing behind them a bit on the narrow sidewalk. The players are twelve and thirteen, which seems like the worst possible age for a child to be.

“Where are you visiting from, Sara?” Max asks, sociably.

Sara is surprised at being directly addressed. “Vancouver,” she says, not volunteering any further information.

“Oh, wow. That’s a long trip for a surprise visit.” They say it in a friendly way, but Sara feels judged.

“Sara’s got a crazy schedule,” Emy says easily. “She travels a lot, she’s on tour a lot. And she’s writing a book _and_ recording a record right now.” The obvious pride in her voice, the joy with which she describes Sara’s work, makes up for Sara’s irritation at being talked about like she isn’t there to speak for herself.

“Oh, duh,” Max says, stepping back politely so Sara can walk with Emy for the last few blocks. “That makes sense, I forgot you were a famous rock star. Sorry, I don’t really follow music. I have seen your album covers at Emy’s place though, I think. ”

“Yeah, Emy is our art director, so she does everything—all of our artwork for our records, our merch. She’s doing our book cover, too.”

“Sara moved away from Montreal a few years ago,” Emy explains, “so she doesn’t get to spend much time here.”

“Well, I’m honored that you agreed to hang out with me while you’re here,” Max says.

Max is cute, and nice. They look robust and athletic, quadriceps that burst out of their shorts, tanned biceps beneath their bright red Montreal Youth Soccer jersey. Sara, by contrast, can _feel_ how obvious it must be that she didn’t sleep last night. She feels small and pale and ugly next to these two smiling, strong, sociable people. Emy isn’t even an extrovert, but she’s nice and she’s friendly and her niceness and friendliness are annoying and tiresome and magnetic and intoxicating.

The three of them arrive at the beer garden, a blessedly unpretentious place, and Emy goes to order their first round while Sara and Max find a table. It’s crowded, so this is no small feat. Sara resents being left with this stranger, but she tries not to show it.

She follows Max as they slowly pick their way through the crowd. She pulls out her phone and opens to her notes app, where Stacy had helped her compose a list of talking points at three am last night when she’d woken from a nightmare in which she’d sat before Emy, entirely mute, while Emy looked on with concerned eyes.

She’s so focused that she runs into Max when they stop at any empty table. “Sorry, I was not paying attention.” Max smiles kindly, unbothered, and they sit.

“Important message?” Max asks, making conversation.

“Yep,” Sara lies.

Max cranes their neck to get a view of Emy at the bar, still separated from their beer by a sea of people. “Are you okay?” they ask Sara. “You look kinda pale. I could get you a water or something?”

Sara laughs. “This is just how I look,” she deadpans. “Thank you, though.”

“How long are you in Montreal?” they ask.

“I’m not sure,” Sara admits, which sounds bizarre and pathetic out loud. “Um, it’s complicated.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

There’s something about Max that makes Sara almost want to say yes. But then a text lights up her phone—Stacy. _HOW’S IT GOING?!?_ Sara sighs. “That’s okay.” She doesn’t know how it's going, but it causes her physical pain to leave a text from Stacy unanswered for more than sixty seconds. _it’s okay. we went out with her friend, haven’t talked yet._

“Can I ask you something?” Max asks, and Sara is trying to figure out the least rude way to say no when Emy returns with three comically large mugs of beer. Sara tries not to gulp hers, but she’s hot in her jeans and Docs, and is desperate for something that might slow down her brain, even a little.

“You can’t get this in Vancouver,” she says by way of excuse, even though she has no idea which IPA Emy has brought her.

“Sara, give us a cat update,” Emy says.

“I know for a fact that Stacy sends you pictures like twice a day,” she says, but she’s already pulling up the pictures from her most recent photoshoot.

“Yes, and she’s an excellent photographer, but I wanna hear about them from you. And you have to show Max!”

“Emy inspired me with Like Like,” Sara explains, passing her phone to Max. “Mickey’s the multicolored one and Holiday is the one who looks like a bitch.”

“She’s a human in a tiny little cat suit! She’s Sara in cat form!” Emy says. “I miss little Miss Holiday Reader-Quin. And her baby brother Mickey!”

Sara scrolls to a photo with Stacy making a funny face, lying in bed with Holiday and her chest and Mickey sitting up, human-like, by her legs. “Aww, Stacy’s so cute,” Emy comments, and Sara agrees. “Sara’s girlfriend Stacy,” Emy explains to Max, who looks downright perplexed.

“Oh,” Max says, in a voice that sounds at best confused and at worst hostile, “your girlfriend.”

Impossibly, Sara feels that familiar rush of fear. Is this . . . homophobia? But Max is very obviously queer, and they’re Emy’s friend. Sara feels Emy’s arm press against hers, grounding her.

“Yeah, Stacy’s the best,” Emy says, turning to face Sara with an intense look. “You guys have to promise to visit me soon. Both of you next time. I miss her.”

“Okay,” Sara says, afraid to make promises but desperate to satisfy Emy.

“Excited to meet her,” Max says easily, all weirdness gone from their voice.

“Max, what do you do?” Sara asks, wanting to not be talking about her relationship anymore.

“I teach sixth grade science!” they answer excitedly, launching into a conversation that thankfully doesn’t seem to require any input from Sara. Sara, who still lies awake some nights thinking about how she never went to university, tries not to feel intimidated.

Sara drains her beer too quickly, and Max goes to get the next round, leaving Sara alone with Emy and Emy’s worried gaze. “You’re quiet,” she says, nudging Sara’s forearm with the back of her fist. “Do you wanna go home?”

Sara shakes her head, but feels something inside her warm at the word home. That first beer had been strong, and she already feels a little lighter, a little off-balance.

“Hey,” Emy says. “I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Sara chokes out, hoping the choke in her voice isn’t as evident as it feels.

“Max is nice, right?”

“Yeah,” Sara agrees, “really nice.”

“Have you texted Stacy since we got here? She made me promise to look after you,” Emy says.

“I don’t need ‘looking after,’” Sara sighs. “But yes, I have, _Mum_.”

Emy is uncowed. “She sounded worried, Sara.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m worried, too,” Emy tells her.

”It’s not anything you should worry about, just—can we please wait and talk about it when we aren’t here?” she says, looking around at the raucous crowds of beer garden patrons. She's naturally jumpy in crowds, and her status as a public figure makes it worse, always imagining she's being surveilled. 

Mercifully, Emy lets the subject drop, and then Max returns with their drinks, and Sara has something to do with her hands and her mouth again.

After the second beer, Sara feels drunk. Stacy isn’t much of a drinker, so Sara’s kind of a lightweight these days. The three of them are all a little louder, a little merrier, but Sara insists on buying a third round, ostensibly to even out the costs but really because she’s still not anywhere near ready to be alone with Emy.

Emy offers to get the drinks for her, insisting Sara is too short to be a commanding presence at the crowded bar and she has to pee, anyway, so Sara slides her credit card into Emy’s waiting hand.

Once Emy is gone, Max starts to talk with a new, serious look on their face. “Hey, um. Sorry if this is weird to ask, but . . you and Emy, you’re exes, right?”

Sara nods. She doesn’t like where this is going.

“It’s just . . . the way Emy talked about you, I thought maybe there was still something there but . . . you’ve moved on?”

“You’re interested in Emy,” Sara deduces, and it’s the most logical thing in the world: two outgoing, fun, _nice_ people, together.

Max surprises her with their fast, “No!” and Sara is almost offended on Emy’s behalf before they continue, “I mean, I won’t lie, I was interested at first. But no, don’t worry, we are definitely just friends.”

“Why would I be worried?”

Max gives her a cool look, and maybe they aren’t quite as nice as they seem. “Listen, it’s obviously not my place, but Emy is just such a nice person and such a good friend, and she sort of talks about you like . . . the one that got away or something.”

And Sara doesn’t know where they’re going with that, but she’ll never find out, because, shockingly, tears burst from her eyes. She’d blame it on the alcohol, but that wouldn’t explain the other (two? three? she’s stopped counting) times she’s cried today.

Max, to their credit, looks absolutely horrified. “Oh, god, Sara, I’m sorry, it’s _really_ none of my business, I shouldn’t have said anything—”

It’s one of those picnic table benches and she trips a little trying to climb over it. She hears Max ask if she’s okay and she waves a hand vaguely as she disappears into the crowd. She weaves toward the back of the hall in search of a quiet place, ending up in the hallway by the bathrooms. She pulls out her phone and the text she has from Stacy makes her start crying in earnest.

 _you can do this, baby. everything is gonna be okay_ , it says. Sara writes back, _I wish you were here_ , because it’s all she can think.

Stacy’s response is immediate: _whose fault is that?_ But she includes the emoji blowing the little heart kiss to soften the criticism.

 _I’m sorry_ , Sara says, then, _I’ve had a couple of beers, I’m a little emotional._

 _you? emotional?_ Stacy writes. Then, _liquid courage._ Then, _you okay?_

 _I’ll be fine_ , she says, _love you_.

 _Love you more lol_ , followed by, _emy isn’t scary, sara. she loves you, you’ve got this._

She stares at the message for a long time and is still staring at the message when she hears her name called and sees that Emy is standing in front of her, frowning. “You’re crying,” she says.

Sara isn’t really crying anymore, but she can feel the cold streaks on her cheeks where the large overhead fan has blown her tears dry.

Emy glances at the phone in Sara’s hand, then checks her own phone, as if she’s expecting a news alert to show up. _WHY SARA IS CRYING TODAY: POLYAMORY EDITION._

“Why did your girlfriend just text me to tell me to buy you a beer?” Damn. An overbearing partner is even worse than a news alert.

Sara rolls her eyes a little. “What else did she say?”

“I don’t think she meant for you to see,” Emy says, looking sheepish.

Sara stares at her, hard, and Emy passes the phone over. _I know Sara is being extra dramatic today, but don’t freak out. Just feed her some more beer and she’ll get over herself and talk to you._

Sara doesn’t want to be angry at either of them, but she is. “I don’t want you guys fucking . . . managing me like that.”

“Okay,” Emy says easily. “We just worry, sweetheart.” Emy shouldn’t be able to call her that, but she still does, sometimes.

She wants to cry _again_. “You guys text about me a lot,” she accuses.

Emy smiles, not bothering to look ashamed. “Define ‘a lot.’”

Sara lets herself lean her head on Emy’s shoulder, surprised to feel some of the annoyance drain from her body.

“Luckily I was already planning to get you a beer,” Emy says, wrapping her arm around Sara’s shoulders to guide her to the bar. “Help me carry them.”

She doesn’t like the idea of using alcohol as truth serum, but she does need the liquid courage, so she drinks the third beer and listens to Max and Emy exchange more stories about the kids on their teams while she basks in the glow of Emy’s presence. She feels angry and scared and very in love.

She takes some time to just look at Emy. Emy who has been her lover, her partner, her ex-wife, and always the best friend she’s ever had.

Despite herself, she relaxes into the afternoon, joining Emy to regale Max with stories from their time together in Montreal, and their time on tour together. They tell them about the time Emy had to physically break up a fist fight between Sara and Tegan seconds before they were expected on stage. She’d gotten caught in the crossfire and taken an elbow to the face, resulting in a nasty bruise which the sisters both blamed on the other. “I’m sorry to tell you that it was your elbow, Sara,” Emy tells her mock solemnly, and Sara feels truly ashamed, fifteen years later.

“God. I cannot imagine working with my sister,” Max says. “We’d both be long dead by now.”

“There were some close calls. That was far from the only brawl,” Emy says brightly, launching into another story of a days-long fight during their North American So Jealous tour, during which Sara spoke to Tegan only through Emy and she’d had to ferry messages back and forth between them. “Emy, can you please tell Sara to come in faster on _Walking With a Ghost_ and that it’s her turn to call Mum back. Emy, tell Tegan to call mum herself and it’s my fucking song and I’ll play it as slow as I want.”

Sara grimaces. “Looking back, we probably should have been paying you for something other than just art direction and merch sales.”

“It was a labor of love,” Emy says, laughing at the memory. “Besides, you guys definitely weren’t making enough money to pay a traveling therapist.”

Max just looks at them, smiles, and says, “The tour was called so jealous? Auspicious.”

“Not just the tour, the whole album. And song!” Emy says.

Sara shrugs. “I wish I could say it was one of Tegan’s songs, but that would be a lie.”

Emy has started singing, off-key and exaggerated, “I want the ocean right now, I want the ocean right now.” Sara shoves her, just lightly, laughing.

“I was young. I had a lot of emotions,” Sara defends herself.

“Sometimes I get so jealousssss, that I can’t even work.” Emy sings, delighting herself the way that tipsy people can.

“Tegan and I don’t get into fist fights anymore,” Sara assures Max. “Don’t worry.”

“Just screaming matches,” says Emy, who has already moved on to a spirited rendition of _Walking With a Ghost_.

“No we don’t! We’re perfectly civil these days!”

“Yeah, you’ve gotten pretty passive aggressive in your old age.” Emy concedes. “Speaking of, how mad is she that you’re here?”

“She’ll get over it,” Sara says.

“Why would she be mad?” Max asks.

“She just misses Emy.” Sara says. “Whatever, you were mine first, Tegan can suck it.”

“Sometimes I get soooo jealouuussss, that I can’t even work,” Emy sings.

“Oh,” Sara says, remembering. “Mum said to tell you she wants to start having weekly family Skype sessions. So you can see my bitch of a sister all you want.”

Emy’s face changes. Her playful smirk turns oddly serious, then softens. “Yeah?” She asks.

“Yeah, of course. We all know mum likes you best anyway.”

“She likes Stacy and Sofia too. And the cats.”

“Fuck you!”

Max looks on, amused.

It’s not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Max calls a Lyft after they finish their beers, and then Sara is alone with Emy.

Emy suggests stopping somewhere on the way back to her apartment for dinner, but Sara is worried her buzz might fade away and take her courage with it if she puts off her fate any longer.

“Can we just go home?” Sara says, feeling a blush rise in her cheeks when she remembers she doesn’t live there. “We can just have sandwiches or something. I don’t care.”

“Are you asking me to make you a sandwich, Sara?” Emy says, but she’s smiling.

“You make the best sandwiches.”

“Sometimes I think you only like me for my sandwich-making abilities.”

Sara stops dead on the sidewalk, grabbing Emy’s arm and shaking her head. “No! I like everything about you! I don’t just love your sandwiches!” She knows she sound and looks like a drunk person, but she doesn’t care. “I do _love_ your sandwiches, though. God, I think about them all the time.”

“You know, I could just teach you how to make a sandwich.”

“I _know_ how to make a sandwich. It wouldn’t be the _same_ ,” she explains earnestly. “Nobody makes a sandwich like you. Even if someone made the exact same sandwich in the same way, it wouldn’t be as good. You’re like, you know how at Subway they call the employees sandwich artists? You’re like an _actual_ sandwich artist. Like—it’s like everything you make is art.”

“You really are a lightweight these days, Jesus,” Emy teases, but she looks a little stunned and maybe even a little moved.

“No, no,” Sara says, intent on proving her ability to communicate her valid and well-reasoned emotions. “I mean, I _am_ , but that was just me being charming and whimsical, I’m playing it up, I’m not actually that drunk.”

“I know,” Emy says, understanding her. “Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich. Maybe you can get Like Like to sit on your lap.”

Like Like does sit on Sara’s lap while she eats her (life-affirmingly delicious) sandwich, and he stays there after they finish eating. Sara feels more steady now, sitting next to Emy on her couch, but she still has enough alcohol in her system to feel just slightly floaty.

She strokes Like Like’s fur mechanically. She’s running out of time. “I know I’m acting all weird and dramatic,” she starts, which, as openings go, isn’t her best work.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Emy says. ”Take a breath.” Sara does as she’s told, and Emy’s face softens, pleased. Sara relaxes, more from the approval in Emy’s gaze than the breath itself.

She brings her hand to rest on Emy’s knee. This is just Emy. She knows how to touch her.

Emy takes the hand on her knee for the request that it is and wraps her arm around Sara, letting her sink into her shoulder. Like Like, affronted, jumps to the floor. Sara, with no cat to pet, turns her face to nuzzle into Emy. “Just talk to me, sweetheart,” Emy says in a painfully soft voice.

Sara can only nod. Her throat hurts.

“I truly can’t think of anything you could say to me that would scare me off or make me stop caring about you,” Emy says, but that’s the whole problem. Sara knows that Emy loves her as much as anyone can love Sara. And she’s _terrified_ to test the limits of that love.

Sara raises her head, making steady eye contact. “I’m scared,” she says, another trick from therapy. Just say your feelings, in the simplest words possible.

“Scared of me?” Emy asks, mock-aghast.

Sara nods, embarrassed.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

Sara can be cocky, confident, and even arrogant, but Emy and Stacy strip her of all of her bravado. Emy looks at her like that, calm and patient and non-judgmental, and Sara’s walls fall away. “It’s not _you_ ,” she admits. “I think I’m scared of me. I wanna do this right, I want to say it right.”

“You will,” Emy says matter-of-factly. “I won’t let anything bad happen.”

Sara feels oddly warmed by this baseless assurance, but she says, “How the fuck would you know?”

Emy just laughs at her, and then looks at her expectantly.

Sara takes out her phone. She has texts from Stacy, several different variations of _why the fuck have you still not talked to her._ She sends, _I’m doing it now, I’ll keep you posted._ She knows Stacy will respond immediately with a reassurance they’ll be okay and a heart emoji, and she isn’t disappointed.

Then she opens her notes app and reviews her list of talking points.

Emy must be trying to give her a modicum of privacy, because instead of looking at the screen inches from her face, she says, “What the hell? You said you have something important to talk about and now you’re what, on fucking Instagram?” She’s scrutinizing her in a way that is part amused, part pissed off, and part genuinely baffled.

“Okay, so. I told you I didn’t want to fuck this up. So I’m just . . . consulting my notes.”

“Your _notes_ ,” Emy repeats in disbelief. “Did you _forget_ what you flew across the country to talk to me about?”

“No, I—” Sara fidgets, untangles herself from Emy and sits up straight, moving to put some space between them on the couch. “Okay. Emy. I love you,” she says, because it seems somehow foundational.

“I know that,” Emy says impatiently, clearly not getting that _this_ is the thing she’s trying to tell her.

“No,” Sara says.

“I . . . don’t know that?”

“I love you. More than anything or anyone. Well. I love Stacy the—the same amount. Not that you can quantify how much—”

“Sara,” Emy says, cutting her off. “You don’t have to say that. I don’t have any doubts about our relationship. You’re my best friend in the world.”

“No!” Sara says, wishing Emy would stop interrupting her. “Just let me get this out,” she says, a little testily. “Sorry. God. I didn’t mean to be—mean.”

“It’s okay,” Emy says, eyes narrowed, looking more worried than offended. “Go on.”

“Okay, so what I’m trying to say is, the way I feel about you hasn’t changed. Ever. And I know how goddamn selfish this sounds and I don’t expect you to give me what I want just because I can’t be normal—”

“Sara—”

“Please, Emy. Let me finish. Please. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just going to tell you what I want. Actually, it’s more than what I want. It’s what Stacy and I want. She wanted to come with me and I didn’t let her because—because I’m stupid, and selfish, but also because . . . she doesn’t get it. She thinks—she loves me, I guess, and she loves you, and she doesn’t understand. I think she expects this whole thing to go a different way than I do, and it would just be too horrible to have her here disappointed and mad at me and confused—”

“Sara, you’re freaking me out,” Emy says, and Sara really looks at her then, and knows it’s true. She doesn’t want to freak Emy out. She just want Emy to smile at her, to be proud of her, to keep being happy to see her when she shows up unannounced on her doorstep.

“Stacy and I want a relationship with you,” Sara says, as plainly as she can. She immediately feels ice cold deep inside the pit of her stomach, but her cheeks are burning, and her head _hurts_. Emy removes Sara’s hand from where she didn’t realize it was clawing into her own inner thigh, and holds it still.

“When you say relationship—”

“I don’t expect you to say yes—I can leave, I understand if you don’t want me to stay here.” Sara knows she’s getting ahead of herself, but she feels unmoored from time. All she can feel is the inevitability of disaster.

Emy gives the hand she’s still holding a little tug.

“No. Sara, stop,” she says. “Don’t go anywhere. You’re okay. I just want to know what you mean. We already have a relationship. Do you mean you want to see each other more?”

“No—well, yes. But what I mean is, we want a romantic and sexual relationship with you,” she says, as explicitly as possible. “We want—we want to be with you. Not as a third or a hookup or whatever the fuck but as a partner. I have _obviously_ never done anything like this, but Stacy brought it up in therapy—”

“You’re in couple’s therapy?” Emy interrupts.

“ _That’s_ the part you comment on?” Sara asks. “Yes. It’s not because anything is wrong,” she says, feeling preemptively defensive. “I just—don’t want to make the same mistakes with her that I did with you. I’m trying to be . . . better.”

“I think it’s great that you’re in therapy, Sara! I’m proud of you. I think it’s great how hard you’re working.”

“I wasn’t good for you,” Sara says. “I know that. I’m so sorry.”

“That was a long time ago. We’re way past that, we’re good. I wasn’t very good to you either,” she says. After a pause, she ventures, “Are you and Stacy not happy?”

“Oh god, no, we’re—we’re doing great, actually. This is really about you. It’s not that something is wrong with Stacy and me, it’s just that . . . I miss you, and so does she. And—I just can’t keep going on acting like I don’t want you just as much as I always have.”

“Why . . . what’s changed, Sara? Why now?”

Sara can’t read Emy’s face, and it’s horrifying. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . I’m sorry, are you being deliberately obtuse right now?”

“No, Emy, I swear, I mean it—nothing’s changed.”

“Well if nothing’s changed, then . . . I don’t get what you’re doing here.”

“Emy. I promise I’m not trying to play dumb or anything. Can I just . . . can you . . . will you explain to me what you mean? What you’re worried about?” This was a tactic she’d been working on. Well, a combination of a couple of tactics. First, ask for what you want and what you need. Second, communicate in the simplest and clearest way possible.

Emy looked surprised by her straightforwardness, which Sara didn’t blame her for. But to her credit, Emy nodded and said, “Yeah. Okay. So. I don’t want to upset you, Sara, but, I’m just not sure where this is coming from? Since we broke up, you have never indicated in the slightest that you wanted something more with me.”

“What are you talking about? I tried to get you back, like, so many times.”

“I think I’d know if you were trying to get me back,” Emy argues. “You weren’t exactly subtle today.”

“That’s because I’ve had a great deal of therapy and engaged in a lot of extensive preparation this time,” Sara says.

“Hmm.”

Sara glares at her, offended.

“When? Did you try to get me back I mean?”

“Every time I saw you after we broke up until I met Stacy.”

“Like _when_?”

Sara composes a list of times in her head. It’s a long and embarrassing list. “That time I house-sat for you.”

“What? What did you say to me?” Emy asks. “All I remember about that week is you avoiding me by leaving an hour before I got back and then writing that creepy song where you insulted my sheets.”

Sara frowned, avoiding Emy’s gaze.

“Oh,” Emy says, shocked. “Oh. Was I supposed to...interpret that song as a . . . romantic gesture?” She looks skeptical.

Sara shrugs. “Yeah.”

“I don’t think that song was as unambiguous as you think it was,” Emy says. “All I took from it was that I shouldn’t ask you to house-sit anymore because it apparently made you feel like you were having a heart attack?”

“Emy, _everything_ makes me feel like I’m having a heart attack.” Sara says, exasperated. “Have you met me? Of course the song was about wanting you back.”

“I’m not debating the meaning of a song you wrote ten years ago, Sara!” Emy laughs, but it’s more frustration that amusement. “Did you ever think about _talking_ to me?”

“I did! I did talk to you!” Sara insists.

Emy looks dubious. “When?”

“You brushed me off pretty quick.”

“I’ve never brushed you off.”

Sara remembers the encounter as clearly as if she’d video taped it. She’s memorized their conversation, after countless nights of replaying it in her head. “You did. You told me you’d just met someone. You were excited about it. And then you rejected me.”

“Are you talking about that time in New York? When we met up—“

“At the wine bar, yeah. I asked if you wanted to come back to my apartment.”

“You asked me to come over to review t-shirt designs.”

“It was eleven pm!”

“Yeah. Okay. So I did think that maybe—“ Emy stops and starts again. “I didn’t want something casual with you. I didn’t want to just have sex with you and then leave the next day. I had boundaries I’d set for myself, Sara.”

“Yeah. I get that,” Sara says, “But you should know I never wanted anything casual with you. As if I could do _casual_. I’m the least casual person on Earth.”

“Yeah,” Emy agrees. “I’m sorry I rejected you.”

“No, don’t be. You were right to, that was good. You should be . . . wary of me.”

“Sara,” Emy says, sounding exhausted.

“I mean it. I would have hurt you. I don’t know how but I would have.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that I’m better now. I mean, I know that I’ve worked really hard to be someone better, for Stacy and for you. But I’ve always wanted you. It’s never been a question of want. It never felt possible. Obviously it still isn’t and—”

“Sara, _relax,_ ” Emy says, all but rolling her eyes at her. “Do you need your puffer?”

“I know you’re joking, but I really might.”

Emy still hasn’t let go of her hand, and her thumb is warm where it’s stroking her wrist. At the very least, she doesn’t appear to be repulsed by Sara’s confession. “I’m not scared of you, Sara.”

“You haven’t said yes,” Sara can’t help but say.

“Oh my _god_. Of course I want to be with you.”

“You do?”

“Come here,” Emy says, stretching out her arms to reel her in. “Can I kiss you?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

Kissing Emy feels like coming home after a long tour. She hasn’t kissed anyone but Stacy in almost a decade, and she hasn’t kissed Emy in even longer. She wants to keep kissing her, but she wants even more to pull back and look at her, and to be told again the Emy wants her.

“You are so important to me,” Sara says desperately. She’s probably made herself clear by now, but she can’t shut up. “You are the most important thing. I promise to be so careful, I’ll be good—”

“You’ve always been good, Sara.”

“I want to be _better_ , Emy.”

“Hey. You’re the most important thing to me too, you know,” Emy tells her, holding her face with one hand. Sara can’t not lean in to the touch. “I’m always going to want you.” She moves her fingers into Sara’s hair, stroking through the strands like she’s petting Like Like. “I don’t want to get in between you and Stacy, though. This kind of thing is complicated.”

“Oh,” Sara says, something inside her sinking.

“No, I’m not saying I don’t want it. I do want it, I want it so much. I’m just agreeing that we need to be careful.”

“I know,” Sara insists. “I will be!”

“Sara, I don’t mean you specifically. I don’t want you thinking you owe me anything or that you don’t deserve this. I just mean that we all need to be careful with each other, the three of us.”

Sara nods, absorbing this. It does seem complicated. She hadn’t expected things to get this far, had never considered that Emy might say yes, and the reality of it, which she’s now truly contemplating for the first time, is overwhelming. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be fair for me to ask you to be monogamous—or, whatever the word is for three people—”

“That’s what I _want_ ,” Emy tries to interrupt, but Sara steamrolls right through.

“If there’s someone else you’re interested in—”

“There’s no one else.”

“Maybe—Max seemed like they liked you a lot, and I don’t want to get in the way of that—”

“Sara, I already told you. I am not interested in Max.”

“But if there’s _someone_ —"

“Honestly, Sara, I think two girlfriends is enough, don’t you?” Emy jokes.

Sara’s quiet for a minute, building up the courage to ask, “But not too much?”

Emy smiles. “Not too much.” _You’re not too much for me_ , Sara hears.

“Okay,” Sara says, trying to believe Emy. “Okay.”

“Hey, Sara?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you think—did you actually think I’d say no? Did you think there was a chance that you’d ask me something and I’d say no to you?”

“Maybe,” Sara says, feeling, bizarrely, annoyed at having been wrong. “You _could_ have said no,” she argues.

“I want you. I love you and I want to be with you.”

“And Stacy? Is it—I know polyamory is weird—”

“It doesn’t sound weird to me,” Emy assures her. “It sounds . . . good. I adore Stacy—I’m so grateful for her, and the way she loves you.” She laughs, continues a little sarcastically, “I do wish she was here . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Sara says, small. “She wanted to be here, but I—she doesn’t understand how bad things were back then, she just—she knows you love me, and she’s so _optimistic_ , I couldn’t bear to bring her here and—“

“Only you could say _optimistic_ like it's a character flaw. You were really scared, huh, sweetheart?” Emy says in a ridiculously indulgent voice, and Sara wants to bathe in it. “Things were bad when we broke up, but we were kids, we were both stupid, and we are so far past that now. That’s not going to happen again, I won’t let it,” Emy says fiercely, punctuating with a hard kiss in Sara’s hair, then her temple, then cheek. “And I know you won’t let anything happen to us either, and neither will Stacy.”

Emy takes a break from kissing to just lean her face into the side of Sara’s head, breathing her in. “I understand why you thought you should come to Montreal alone, but isn’t it weird we’re making decisions about our relationship without Stacy here?”

“We can call her,” Sara suggests, and Emy is already pulling up FaceTime. Stacy answers immediately, and Sara feels a wave of guilt at having left her to wait by the phone all day.

Stacy’s face lights up the screen, and Sara feels herself smile—it’s not a conscious act. Stacy is in their bed, looking gorgeous and exhausted and concerned and _hopeful._ “Emy,” she says. “Hey.” Then she turns her head slightly to look at Sara. “Hi, baby.”

Stacy has taken in the way they’re sitting, impossibly close, Sara’s head tucked into the cradle of Emy’s shoulder like its glued there, Emy’s hand that isn’t holding her phone tangled in the loose hairs at Sara’s neck, stroking there gently. “How’s it going?”

Sara can’t speak, is using all her brainpower to memorize the sensation of Emy’s fingers on her throat and to inhale the scent of her, underneath the beer and the soccer sweat, and to stare at Stacy on the little screen, so Emy answers for them both. “We’re good,” she says. “Missing you.”

“I wish I was there with you,” Stacy says.

“We do too,” Emy says. “Sara finally told me why she came here,” she adds, unnecessarily. “I’m very glad she told me. Less glad she didn’t let you come with her,” she says, tugging at the hair she’s combing through with her fingers.

Sara turns her face into Emy’s shoulder for a second, more of a nuzzle than an attempt at hiding from either of them, before she looks at Stacy again, earnestly remorseful. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I was stupid. You should be here.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Stacy says, and she sounds steady and sure, as always. “I know how hard this was for you. You did great.”

“She did,” Emy agrees, then ruins it by adding, “She was pretty stupid about some things, though.”

“Yeah?” Stacy says.

“I don’t think she understands how much we love her,” Emy tells Stacy, in a voice that’s almost playful.

“Yeah,” Stacy says, looking sad. “Hey, can you do me a favor?” Sara feels Emy nod. “Can you set the phone down somewhere so I can see you?”

Emy and Sara wordlessly work together to finagle a stand from a couple of books and some sweaters to prop Up the phone, then they settle back into the couch. “Is that good?” Sara asks.

“Yeah, that’s perfect. Thanks. I wanted your hands free,” she explains, and it isn’t even like she’s trying to be sexy, she sounds like she’s in a business meeting, but it’s working for Sara. “Emy, can you take one hand and cradle the back of her head for me?” she directs. “And then take your other hand and—no actually, take her shirt off first—is that okay, Sara?”

Sara looks at Stacy and nods, then looks at Emy and says, “Please.” Emy takes off Sara’s shirt, leaves her bra.

“Good,” Stacy says, and Sara listens to the smile in her voice. “Okay, put your hand back on her head, so you’re just holding it. You can scratch her scalp a little. Now can you put your hand on her chest, right over her heart.”

Emy looks at Sara as she moves to comply. “Is this okay, Sara?”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Sara says, and, oddly, it is. She wonders if Stacy, on the other side of the country, has gone a little drunk with power, as if Sara and Emy are some kind of choose-your-own-adventure TV show. It’s a weird fucking request, and it’s laughably on-the-nose. But it feels good to have Emy holding onto her, head and heart.

Emy’s hand is soft and warm on her skin. “Yeah,” Stacy says. Sara isn’t sure what she’s agreeing to, but it feels good to hear her speak. “Okay. Emy, can you feel her heartbeat?” She waits for confirmation that she can, then says, “How does it feel?” Sara’s own racing heart should not be sexy, but Emy is right there, and Stacy has somehow found a way to touch her, so specifically, through the phone screen, and every sense feels heightened.

“It’s fast,” Emy tells her, then turn to peer into Sara’s eyes. “Are you okay, sweetheart? You’re not still scared?”

Sara shakes her head. “Just . . overwhelmed,” she admits, turning to the screen with Stacy’s face on it. “Stacy,” she says. “I want you here with us. I miss you.” It’s been the longest and strangest day of her life.

“I know. I miss you guys too. But, Emy’s going to take care of you, okay? She’s got you. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” She says. “Emy. I want to look at you. Can you—please.”

“I have to let go of you for a minute if you want me to take my clothes off,” she says, laughing. When Sara nods, she kisses her cheek as she untangles her hand from her hair and moves her hand away from her heart. Sara takes the opportunity to unhook her own bra as Emy removes her jersey. Emy’s hands are back on Sara in an instant, one at the side of her throat and the other gripping her side, thumb resting just an inch from her nipple. “Jesus Christ, Sara,” Emy breathes, “You’re so goddamn beautiful.” Sara looks down, feeling a little shy, still overwhelmed with the attention of both of her partners, even with only one of them in the room.

“She’s right, Sara.” Stacy says. “Can you guys please just kiss each other? I have to—I want to see you.”

Sara leans in to the direction, kissing Emy fiercely, grabbing her face with both hands as if she’s trying to pin her in one spot. “Emy, you feel so good,” she whispers to her mouth. “She’s even better than I remembered,” Sara says to Stacy.

“Sara, can you finish getting her undressed for us?” Stacy asks. “I would do it myself if I could, but...”

Sara’s _wish you were here_ goes unspoken this time, but they all feel it as Sara grants Stacy’s request, slowly and carefully, the way Sara does everything important. “Wow,” Stacy breathes, then laughs at herself. “Fuck. I can’t believe how good you look, Emy. Sara, baby, tell her how good she looks?”

If Stacy can’t physically be here with them, this is the next best thing. Sara wants Stacy to be an active participant, and she can’t say she doesn’t like the direction. “You’re so gorgeous, Emy. You’re so sexy and so elegant and your body is just—art,” Sara says. Emy is naked, right there on the couch, and Sara has to keep reminding herself this is real. “I can’t believe I get to look at you. I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you. I missed touching you.”

“Me too,” Emy tells her, looking a little shy.

“Sara?” Stacy says. “Can you do something for me?”

Neither Sara nor Emy needs to be told how to touch each other. They know each other’s bodies as well as they know their own. They don’t need Stacy, but they do _want_ her, which is even better.

Sara looks at the screen, sees Stacy smiling back.

“Anything you want.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! please leave me a comment if you've made it through this absurdly long fic--I'd love to know your thoughts!


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